


Stairs are as important as the House

by laliquey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Teacher-Student Relationship, The House of Black and White
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-04-29 07:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14467644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: At the House of Black and White, Arya goes out of her way for the Many-Faced God.Jaqen does the same for her.





	1. cedar

**Author's Note:**

> WOW I am late to this fandom! These two are just the best & I can't wait to catch up on all the fics & theories/hopes that we might see them again in season 8. 
> 
> Thanks for clicking!
> 
>    
>  _tw: cramps & blood but nothing graphic_

A light overnight rain wet the limestone edifice, and in the morning, a girl takes a boar's-bristle brush and goes outside to scrub the stairs. It is a task both unsolicited and thankless, but it's good have the sensory cleanse of open air when so many recent breaths have been cloyed by incense or decay.

She's also acquired a quiet problem. It all began with dreams that make her want to be near Jaqen all the time, and yet not at all lest he sense it and drill her on how a girl who would dissolve into no one could feel any tug of affection for a man who was already there. It is an unpleasant threshold for a heart to cross, and it can't help that she's also synched with the moon and every problem seems far bigger than it is.

How she loathes being tethered to the moon...all month long she's nearly no one, and then this unseen piece of her kicks to life to remind her who she is. _Was._ She never quite forgets, and how could she? One day she'll don nothing but men's faces to test if this pinching hell in her middle will go away.

She ignores the discomfort and scrubs out a song for her family: a stroke for every syllable of every name, then a chorus of those she will kill. When the bristles begin to asymmetrize, she rotates the brush and digs in again until the gentle nudge of Jaqen's sandal pulls her out of her trance. "A girl was not asked to do this." He takes a moment to survey her work. "She serves the Many-Faced God well."

Arya sits back on her heels and shrugs. "Stairs are as important as the house."

"A girl won't get much further with a brush that's worn down to wood. And there's work inside if she will come in."

She shrugs again and allows him to help her up to her feet. As she walks beside him, a man senses a difference in her today. A brightness is missing and her carriage is different, but a man will not voice this because her secrets are not his to know.

He brings her inside to where three are waiting, two laid out and one yet alive. The one yet alive is scheming to fight and a man quietly leaves them to their work, knowing that they are another step closer to the day when only one remains.

"Where have you been all morning?" the Waif asks, haughty as a hated queen and the day's only just begun. "These two died and you were nowhere to be found."

"They'd been kneeling for days. No one knew when they'd decide it was time." Arya frowns. Usually she'd hold onto Jaqen's praise like a jewel, but she blocks it out because she needs all wits about her now. There's something wrong with this one, who isn't nearly as suited to service as she likes to believe. She's a far cry from no one. She's _awful._

She also seems to know Arya's affliction and exploits it. The velvet oval buckles and twists in her center and she needs nothing more than to break away and deal with the blood, but more and more work is heaped upon her. "You will clean their fingernails and I will check that you've done it well."

After that, there are their feet. When the bodies are taken away, she tyrannically announces tasks they've never done before: the tables need washing with mineral spirits and the bottles and jugs should be emptied into bowls, cleaned, and refilled; with that, a girl walks away. The wretch can follow, if she likes, and might get hit with a sopping red rag if she does.

Arya wends to the room where the clothes of the dead are heaped until high enough to bale for the paper mill, and gets down on her knees and tears a strip of linen along the grain and fashions it into a little folded roll. She makes several others to tuck away for later, unaware that Jaqen walks past and sees. Not only does he see, he  _knows._

He turns away; this is for the thing that most men fear, or at the very least avoid...it's far too intimate for a man to know and yet a man does.

Two rooms away from the girls' work he cures the inside of the freshest face and overhears the snippy talk and slaps continue into the afternoon. The first girl's cruelty starts to rage and her voice raises to unnecessary heights...jealousy is souring her blood. It will be her undoing, this.

"You'll never be ready. Join your family and stop wasting the time of those who are."

"A girl has no family."

"Yes she does. Arya Stark should go outside and jump in the water with weighted ankles. You miss them, don't you? Join them. You're not wanted or useful here." She enjoys the reaction and continues. "And I'm not the only one who thinks it."

This is too much, and Jaqen places himself in the doorway, still as stone until he is seen. The first girl recoils while the darker eyes welcome him.

"A girl asks to be excused. Please."

He nods, fielding the scowl from the other, then mirrors it. "It is not wise to speak for others," he says sternly, surveying the mess of bottles. The uncomfortable will usually fill silence, but this one does not so he fills it himself. "It would seem that this girl now has twice the work."

He catches up with Arya on the way to her alcove and her mind races as his fingers wrap tight around her bicep.

 

_Am I in trouble? He can't punish me, I haven't done anything wrong, and why can't it just be us? I probably don't really have all those stupid feelings anyway. I probably just want to learn in peace._

 

When they're a few steps away, her heart starts to pound.

 

_If he so much as grazes me with that stupid stick I'll probably cry and I can't have him see that._

 

A quick excuse is made so maybe he won't. "A girl doesn't feel well and wants to lie down."

"Then a girl should." She curls submissively with her back to him and the vulnerability pains him, a bit. Such burdens for this girl...

"A girl should know that she is useful. And wanted."

"She's also selfish and hates another with the fire of every hell."

"Then her talents are wasted. She serves her God well and all else is nothing."

She sighs tiredly. "A girl will feel better in a few days."

Again, a man can hardly believe he knows this about her. Facing the wall, it seems that she is trying to make herself smaller.

A man sometimes remembers things from another life. He once knew a woman who explained the mechanics and periodic misery of her kind. This woman taught him the paradox of how a careful press on the distal outside brought relief to a hollow both frontal and inside, which made no sense but then many things that are true do not.

"If she trusts a man, a girl might feel better now."

"She trusts him."

He sinks to sit beside her, ducking to not crack his head, and a slow hand roams over the back of her tunic in search of a tender spot at the base of her spine. She stiffens at the unexpected touch but then slacks into the stone as he finds the spot just above where the butterfly halves join the ribbed arrowhead and presses with a thumb.

_"Oh."_

A man has long wondered how they keep it so hidden, the coppery scent halfway between life & death.

A girl bites back a sound, embarrassed to have made it, but then melts into a sigh as the pressure remains. After a time he gently rolls her onto her front so that he might lean into her with an elbow, not too hard and not too soft.

A man could speak of the time he caught a woman lying on a potato to simulate this, but does not.

"A girl wishes to repay this kindness with stacks of gold as high as this house."

"But she has none, just as a man has no use for it."

"All the same."

He works so deep it elicits a moan that awakens a thing in him that he thought was mostly gone.

"Gods, that's good."

He can't help getting carried away and presses so hard she gasps.

"Too much, too much. Yes. Yes, like that."

"Does it help?'

"Mmm. It does."

She shifts and turns to gaze up at him with one eye. "When a girl had a name and a family, her sister had a cedar chest for woolens," she says. "A girl would scratch the inside of the lid with an awl to awaken the scent, and the sister would scream and pinch her for ruining it, even thought it was in a place where no one would see." Her voice gets smaller. "A man this close smells like cedar."

It's as if his throat holds a stone. All the years of being a nameless shadow or the last thing some men see, and yet a girl is winding her way into his details and anchoring him to this self he isn't. Or is. Was? Is. No. Now...a man does not even know.

He leans back in to fit his elbow into her spot again; her eye closes and a current flows between their two layers of cloth, and it swells and ebbs to smaller than it is...perhaps this is not strange. Two can touch this way without a greater meaning; their accord does not require a new name. She stirs. "That's enough. A girl is grateful and well enough to scrub stairs or whatever a man asks. Anything for the Many-Faced God."

He takes back pressure ounce by ounce until it's gone. It's a sudden loss not to touch so a hand returns to the small of her back. It is avuncular only, this, but then...how has she pulled him back to lessening the suffering of one who once held his heart in both hands?

"A girl has served enough for today, and the body may rest so long as the mind remains devoted to her God."

Her eyes are wide and clear as she rolls onto her back. "A girl is devoted." She squeezes his hand in brief thanks, then her nails lightly scratch his inner wrist and she touches it to her nose.

A soft joy ripples through him as he leaves her, followed closely by fear.

A man knows to whom she is devoted.


	2. rope

She is Lanna all morning, a dark little flower who weaves her way through harbor lanes of gull shit and noise.

It's a tactile pleasure to stretch into this new skin as she shells, sells, and spies. Not only is she believed, she's liked; today Lhara chats beyond their usual transaction and treats her like a kind older sister might by smudging lip rouge on her bottom lip and rubbing two dots into her cheeks - to help her snag a hypothetical fisherman's son, she says. That's the last thing Lanna wants and Arya wants it even less, but she's beginning to see how the freedom to slip into other lives could be far more powerful than a crown.

By mid afternoon, the shellfish are gone and she re-enters the cool interior of the House. The heavy gathered skirt is traded for trousers, and she recedes into namelessness for her lessons in the south-facing room that has the best light.

Once, she was early enough to watch Jaqen spar with another. He fought like every joint was double with a speed so subtle she could never tell its origin or destination. The fondness in her breast bloomed like a great sloppy mess at first, but then she tamped it down hard. The determination to learn how outweighed all else. Even that.

She warms up with a few swishy swings - her practice foil's an exact twin of Needle turned from alderwood, which both she and Jaqen pretended not to know when he gave it to her. The real Needle would be no match for his thin stick that detects lies. At least not in her hands. Not yet.

"Oh!" Her legs buckle from behind and she falls to her knees...Jaqen often starts lessons this way.

"Does a girl have cockles in her ears? That she does not hear a man so close?"

"No cockles. You're too quiet."

"Then you are not listening."

She gets up and assumes her stance, which he picks apart. "So much tension. This girl will be tired before she does anything."

She tries to relax but his arm flashes out and grabs her left wrist. "See how rigid. A man can push or pull her with this." He illustrates by doing just that. She shakes it out, tries again. "Feel with the feet but don't look at them. The mighty Titan would be underwater if not for what."

"His toes."

"Yes." He grabs her arm again and she's boneless. "Ah. Much less useful to others that way."

Their sparring alternates between fast and slow so she might feel which muscles move which bones. Her arm tingles from being held up for so long and it's about to sag when the stick whistles through the air and slaps her; it stings like being cut. Rather than gasp, she pinches breath back tight and gets in a good hard kick but it doesn't shake him. Not only does he smell of cedar, he's stable as a tree. "The right arm is your rudder. Keep it closer."

"Like this?"

"Yes. Again."

After a time, they transition to hand-to-hand, which he keeps instructive and slow.

"A girl is a river stone and every blow is water, hers to redirect."

Knuckles connect abruptly with her flank, though not enough to hurt. "At the same time, she must flow around an obstacle without confronting it," he says, guiding her to accept it. "It is not weak to yield if she draws an offense inward and moves it where she likes."

The hand comes again slowly, and she turns into it, pulls its energy and falls back into him with an elbow just under his breastbone. He catches her and gently sets her free.

"Yes. Again."

His attacks are clearly gentled down for practice but he ramps up when she begins to anticipate what he will do. "A girl is improving," he notes as she ducks away.

The momentum and proximity are making her giddy and a bit saucy, too. "Any excuse to dance so close to a lovely man," she says, and blows an air-kiss into the space he just occupied. A leg meant to sweep an ankle spins her like a dancer who is suddenly far out of reach and smiling. She even feels pretty for a moment, and there's a soft glint in his eye that he thinks it too, but all hope flies out her throat when she's suddenly flat on her back and in the greatest pain of the day. She's not even sure how he did it.

Her breath is a pained whistle, and she can't insist she was only playing because she halfway wasn't, and on top of that her voice is stuck.

Jaqen is not amused. "No hands, elbows, or knees," he warns. "Get up."

She wriggles, unable and embarrassed, until he drags her up by a hand.

He seems impatient now, and won't look at her face. "What holds a girl upright?"

"This," she pats a thigh.

"No."

"Neck and spine?"

"No. A girl forgets this," he draws two vertical lines on her front with a fingertip. "And this." The same, on her back. He gives a little poke. "This is soft where it should be hard."

"Oh."

He circles her slowly, probably appraising all the other faults of her body, size, and skill...such a fool to think she was any good at this, or that he might've found her pretty. She isn't. Never was.

"A girl will go to the Hall of Faces and wait."

She leaves him and descends the stairs, slightly worried. This isn't a game to him and she's inappropriate at best, unworthy at worst. On her first day in Braavos, she'd been told she had everywhere else to go, but given her list and plans for those on it, that's not true...she _has_ to be here. She _has_ to learn how.

The door latch opens with a heavy squeak and she enters the Hall alone for the first time. The columns of neutral faces have no sympathy, no nothing, and the thrill this place once gave her is replaced with uncertainty. If he isn't weighing whether to give up on her, she hopes he might show her how to use the faces and assume a body stronger than the one she has now. It wouldn't solve all her problems, but it might fix a few.

Jaqen appears and flops a heavy coil of rope off his shoulder; an unseen blade jumps into his hand and a short length is cut off and tossed aside. "Tie a knot here," he says, doing so himself on the long piece. "And then again..." he measures with his arm. "Here. Tie until there is no more."

The task is easy until she needs to lay the whole thing out and take dozens of steps to tie the next knot. At the end, the long muscles of her back already ache, and he loops the scrap around her waist and binds her right wrist behind her.

He then wraps a few lengths of rope around one shoulder. All Arya knows is that he's not given up on her yet, and the thrill of the Hall edges back in. It's stunning to watch him carefully climb one of the columns using the edge of every face frame as a toe-hold.

"Gods! Is that allowed?"

He doesn't answer but takes care not to touch any chins. At the top, he scales out onto a dark beam using just fingertips; a leg rears up and hooks to hold him, and he hangs partway upside-down and glances downward.

She looks up with the awe of when this place was new. "A man's like a bat up there."

"And yet he cannot fly." He smiles to himself and brings the rope over the beam and ties it tight. He tests it with his own weight, then pitches down it with a grace and speed he knows she will appreciate.

"Now climb."

"Tied up like this?"

'Yes."

 _Do not say or think you can't. Just go._ She reaches with the free arm and frames the lowest knot with both feet...her weight sways the rope and it takes every muscle to prevent a wobble that won't stop. The climbing is sheer pain, it's too frightening to look down and her arm feels like it's tearing its socket housing with every pull. But she keeps going, feeling a new value in her legs and the lines Jaqen drew on her. Somehow he knew that this was just a hair's width on the side of possible.

She reaches the beam and earns a quiet "Very good," from below. The journey down is not necessarily easier but it's faster, and she looks over her shoulder when she's nearly there.

"Catch me!" She leaps into Jaqen's arms two knots from the floor, slick with sweat and panting. Proud. He removes the rope binding her and can't hide that he's proud, too.

"Whoo." She leans to rest against the blank part of a pillar. If he's climbing the frames, surely it's not disrespectful to slide down to slump on the floor. "That wasn't easy."

It's unexpected that he sinks down beside her. "One day a girl might climb with two arms and one leg."

"How?"

He reaches over with the the rope scrap, and re-fashions it to tie her legs into a four.

"It doesn't seem possible."

"It is. And after that..." He frees her again and loosely binds her wrists and ankles together and waits for her to see the humour, but she lies still and thinks of a way to make it work. Then she looks at him, mildly disgusted.

"This is a joke, isn't it."

"It is."

"Good." She shakes off the rope and her blood is warm and alive. "Earlier a girl thought she'd been given up on forever and now this."

True; for a moment a man had been angry but only with himself, and he's probably about to make it much worse but can't seem to stop. Her legs shake from the exertion, so he throws one of his over hers to weight them down. It cheers her even more, and she shows her left arm, which trembles like a dry leaf in the wind.

Tomorrow she won't be able to lift it high enough to wash the dead, unless...

"A girl needs a hot bath."

"She might, but there's no such thing here."

He draws himself up and offers a hand, then takes her out of the Hall and further down into the House than she's ever ventured.

A narrow door ends a dim, slanted hall. Rough stairs behind it descend at a pitch difficult to predict and Jaqen goes first and reminds her not to look at her feet, to feel instead. There's no choice because it's so dark and a few times she has to steady herself with a hand on his back, and rather than point out the disconnect between mind and feet, he waits patiently until she can continue.

There's a candle lit somewhere below but it's not enough to see by. It's also humid, with a touch of a scent she's noticed before in the Hall. "What's down here?"

"Far below, there's a fissure in the earth. Essos and Westeros used to be one but the fire that pulled them apart is still there. This House could have been built anywhere but the Faceless Men put it here for this."

The lone candle illuminates a square room with a dark pool in the center. It's warm as a womb, and tiny spots of light spray across the ceiling like stars. "Is that the Hall above us?"

"Mm. The water that rises is good for the faces, but not too much or they will go soft."

She kneels to dip a hand in the pool, and it's luscious. "Are we getting in?"

"A girl will, but a man cannot. The rule of the House is one at a time."

"Why?"

A man does not wish to speak of the debauchery that led to the rule. "The worst a girl can guess is most likely true."

"Will you at least stay until she gets used to it?"

He nods his assent and turns away when she disrobes and slips in with a groan of pleasure, followed by, "Oh! Where's the bottom?"

"There isn't one. It goes all the way down."

"This...it feels like a foot-hold."

"They're all around, and a place to sit over there."

He sits and then stretches to lounge beside the pool. He hadn't taken part in the rule-necessitating debauchery, but it's a shame to be deprived of the waters now. It's too dark to see much of his girl but she's found the shelf to sit on and rests her head against the edge. Her face is as peaceful as he's ever seen it.

"Tomorrow won't be so painful now," she says. "A girl is very grateful."

He absently trails fingers through the water. "A man is grateful to have such a student."

"Hmm."

Eyes adjust to the darkness more and he recalls a thought from earlier, when they were close enough to breathe the same air. "Was Lanna's face painted today?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"A customer did it. Asked if she had a sweetheart and thought it might help her get one."

"Hmm."

"Hmm." She levels him with her eyes and again notes the flicker of weakness. He suddenly pulls the leftover rope hank from a sleeve and starts fashioning it into a bowline knot. He will look anywhere but at her.

So she _had_ seen something earlier.

"Jaqen."

He pulls the knot apart to make something else.

"Jaqen," she says again. "No one will know if you get in."

He smiles. "In a House of no ones, that is not encouraging."

She smiles; he's won. "Suppose not."

Legs swing around and he pushes up to stand. "A girl mustn't stay too long. She could fall asleep and drown."

"Stay to see that she doesn't," she says, but knows he won't. "It was very kind to share this place," she adds, and he nods in return and turns to leave.

His departure's not as disappointing as it could be because the bath is such a pleasure, not to mention the renewed confidence over her apprenticeship. If she was so terrible he'd have thrown her in the bay, not shown her this. It's strange how what doesn't feel like progress almost always is.

The danger of falling asleep and drowning is too real after a bit more soaking, and she pulls herself out by the foot-holds and wrestles with her clothes, which are reluctant to re-cover her wet body. The path back to her chamber is relatively direct, so she ties the tunic arms around her waist; it covers enough, and she folds her trousers into a square to cover her chest.

Outside the dark little room is a sight more lovely than any she can remember: the ascending glow of a dozen low candles lining the stairs.

Jaqen has lit the path for her.


	3. overflow

In a life of calm, measured steps, it is a startling thing for a man to crash to the floor.

All the years of the statuary being eye-level and he's suddenly looking up at their undersides while his hip pulses with a pain so fierce it has a color. Men are predictable, particularly in fighting, but it's easy to forget that latent violence lurks almost everywhere.

He sits up and finds that the cause is the Weeping Woman and the rain that's pounded the coast all day. The smallest duct of the rooftop cistern feeds her eyes, and once every few years it's too much and her bowl overflows and spills onto the floor.

Today is that day, and he pulls himself up and hobbles around until some of the ache dulls. Shame how being no one doesn't remove one from being human...

It's at least a comfort that no one was in the sanctuary to see or hear it.

Two brothers are recruited to dry the floor with rags and another scales the great ladder to adjust the spigot, but Jaqen can only think of his little opal-eyed beggar outside. How much has her bowl overflowed...she must be soaked to the bone.

He slips out without anyone knowing where or why; the rain is like being spit on by every army and he winces on the way to the place he hopes she still is. She might have found shelter, but safety easy enough for a blind girl to find would likely be owned or occupied by a sighted person, beggar or not, who would drive her away.

He walks faster.

She's been out here for days upon days and the only difference is that she's wet now, so why a man's sudden conscience that perhaps this was too much? Perhaps he can't quite forget the anguish that shrunk her when he marched her out here and left her without a word.

And perhaps he's grown rather fond.

He did not relish taking her eyes. He absolutely approves who died and why, but rules are rules; he's breaking several this very moment, but she's been courted for a reason and it's all for nothing if she's lost.

_Ah._

She's right where he expects her to be.

_Sweet girl._

The brown lump is huddled so near the wall it's as if it grew there.

_Forgive. Please._

As he bends down beside her, a knee slams a coin's-width away from his jewels and an elbow stabs him in the ribs but then she knows it's him and trembles in his arms. She asks for no relief, just clings and closes those dead white eyes.

"A man will help you. Come."

Her trust is thin at first, but once on her feet, she walks alongside him with a hand hooked on his arm. "Where are we going?'

"To a place more pleasant than here."

"The House of Black and White?"

"No."

More questions tingle in her mouth but he could take this opportunity - and himself - away at any moment, so she follows and doesn't ask about the faint limp shadowing his left side. She hadn't dared to hope for this and will hold it as long as she can. The rain spikes their shoulders like tiny arrows and he steers her toward an inn that's not far away.

The inside smells like a good potage but the welcome is not warm.

"No," the innkeeper backs away from Jaqen, hands up in surrender. "Please, no. Not today. I've got a family-"

"A man does not want what you think he wants." Far too many coins are placed in his hands and the man's demeanor predictably softens. "You will give this girl a room for the night."

"Yes. Yes, my apologies. I've got a nice one right this way."

They're led to and left in a tiny room with a tidy bed - no hearth, but far better than where she was before. A girl looks so lost with those scratched-glass eyes, in the middle of the room with no locus and fingers spread wide.

_I don't know what you want me to do._

A man helps ease the heavy wet cloak off over her head. She shivers in a thin chemise underneath...it clings to her damp skin and shows two peaks and a shadow, which she hunches and crosses arms to hide. "A man is not looking," he says gently, and turns her to face the wall, then pulls the wet chemise up over her head. Naked, she folds into bed with a relief that's the opposite of what he feels catching a glimpse of what he should not see.

She looks exhausted, and if she asks to come back he may not be able to refuse her. He might carry her.

"A girl is very grateful."

"Good."

He looks down upon her, uneasy that they're even here, but then...he can justify it, can't he? Now she won't wash into the canal, and will be even more determined to learn all he has to teach when she's back at the House.

Fast as he's trained her to fight, she sits up; holding herself covered with one hand, the other hooks his thigh and pulls.

"A girl would like to thank a man with her mouth."

"That will not be necessary."  
  
"Please-"

"No.  _No._ A man cannot."

They should not be here. A thousand puzzle pieces must be re-arranged to make any of this fit service for the Many-Faced God...

"At least stay a while," she pleads softly and folds hands in her lap in surrender. "I know I need to be punished, and listen and be still. Valar dohaeris, I know and I try, every day. But you're my only bridge to Him and I'm more useful when you're with me. Teaching me how."

It seems he's not alone in framing weak lies as service.

"Dear girl. Some of that is true, but so much is not."

She sighs, resigned. "Will you at least tell me why you're limping?"

"The Weeping Woman cried so much a man slipped on the floor."

She smiles. "Did anyone see?"

"No."

"I might cry like that if you go."

"Shh. This girl never cries." He kisses her forehead and guides her to lie back down; she is pliant to his touch and her bare shoulders and collarbones are as much as his eyes can take. He knows her scent well from their old sparring proximity and can't help dropping another kiss on her hairline.

Then she reaches up to feel his face.

It's unbearably intimate, but he allows it. A thumb brushes his mouth, the bridge of his nose, and a gentle touch closes his eyes. Cheeks, hair...gravity almost pulls him toward her but he won't give in, as much as he might like to. Just as it's about to become too much she settles in, arms over the coverlet and fingers woven in a gesture of closure that's a relief to see.

"Was she doing it for a reason? Are a great many about to die?"

"A great many always are, lovely girl. But it was the rain."

A little pink smile lifts her mouth and it feels like she's seeing him, though she can't be. "Hmm."

"Hmm."

Her fingers uncross and she rises up on her elbows. "Let me touch your face again," she says, but he stands where she cannot reach.

"A girl will get her dry clothes back in the morning. Then she will go back to her place and wait."

"For you?"

Of course, but he cannot say it and turns for the door.

He doubles what was already paid and gives her sodden clothes to the innkeeper. "Dry these before your hearth and put them outside her door in the morning. Knock once and tell her it's there. Give her something to eat the same way, both tonight and tomorrow. And bring her hot tea."

"Tonight or tomo-"

"Bring it to her now."

The weather outside is even more fierce than when they arrived. Perhaps a man will have hot tea himself, he thinks, as the sheets of water beat down and pool where the walk is uneven. Though he certainly owes restitution to The Many-Faced God for this tangential slip in service, he likes to think of a girl safe and warm in tonight's bed. Her progress is a thing to behold - at her age he was patting together mud houses for pet frogs, and here she is, killing. _Enduring._ Her rage is focusing to a pinpoint that will split men in half; every day she's closer to ready, and gods help the other girl when she rises up to beat her.

There is much about her to admire. And of course there's the matter that makes his face flush, too.

How would she know how to thank a man that way?

Has she?

_Would she?_

Such thoughts must never be thought, and yet here they are.

He's seen the tenderness she lavishes on the dead and has once or twice wondered how those careful hands might treat the living. Now that his face knows, the rest of him aches for a turn.

A gust of cold wind whips his hair and steals the breath right out of his throat, though it cannot reach the curious little fire that burns within him.

In his limited capacity to care about anyone or anything, he's always cared for her, but this is becoming something else entirely.

He's falling.  


	4. a thousand times

Jaqen is as relieved to have her back at the House as she is over the return of her eyes, and she emerges stronger and surer as expected. They do not discuss the lessons of her suffering, nor do they speak of his recent kindness or what she offered in return.

Their fondness surfaces now and then in private. When passing on the stairs, she might stop one step higher to look directly into his eyes when speaking. Other times, it's his hand on her when instructing or sparring when there's no reason to touch her at all. Even when they're rooms apart, it becomes quietly understood that things between them are different now.

It is why he decides to alter her combat practice after one particularly grueling afternoon. All the grunting and sweating and bumping into each other is a bit too close to something else entirely.

"Starting tomorrow, a girl will fight with a series of faceless men. A different one every day," he says, and her mood immediately darkens.

"Why?"

"So that she might fight against different heights and abilities."

"Couldn't a man shift himself into other men and provide that variety himself?"

That hadn't occurred to him, since it does nothing solve his problem. "He could. But it's time that a girl learned how to cure faces," he says, and is rewarded with a lovely smile across her own.

He begins to teach her the powders and ointments that preserve what should rot, and keep flexible what should disintegrate into grease. She enjoys the process and works alongside him, bashing amber to powder with a pestle while he gauges the exact shade of honey to mix in for their latest face.

"When do you think a girl might go out again, to give His gift?" she asks. "To the proper recipient, of course."

"A man cannot say."

They work in silence a bit more. Rather than tapping the pestle when the bits get small, her wrist does a circular grind that makes a pleasant ringing sound he quite likes.

He looks over her shoulder to check her work and it's not strange that she leans back against him. Her new training partners have been bruising her from face to ankle and the scent of healing helichrysum oil floats to his nose. She smells like summer. "Good?"

"Good."

A measure of natron's spooned in and she makes a little song of soft taps interspersed with a glorious sweep around the mortar rim every few passes. Jaqen returns to his honey - his favoured shade is sluggish, so he warms the bottle in his hands. Being still frees him to watch her, and the new confidence has her carrying herself higher. She seems taller. _Older._ He'll latch onto any excuse for the way he thinks of her now.

This should be the respectful preservation of a dead man's final gift, but all Jaqen can think of is how erotic her hand looks wrapped around that damned pestle.

"One day a girl might need to learn certain things," she says, snapping him back to his proper mentorly role. "To become someone else."

"Every day she learns. Even now."

"Suppose her next mark works in a brothel, or frequents one," she says, looking sideways for a reaction. "Certain things she ought to know to be convincing."

He scoffs. "A girl does not need to learn such things."

"But it's the commonest thread in the whole world. I'm here because of it, and so are you." Her pestle hand blessedly stops and she lodges it on her hip. "I want to know what it's like."

He sighs, quite unprepared for this argument. "Not until a girl is older."

"I'm more than old enough, thank you. And neither of us want to wait."

That's never been volunteered from his side, but of course she knows. The grip on the honey bottle's turned his knuckles quite white and he sets it aside.

_No one hears, and friends may talk in secret, yes?_

"Perhaps one day, a girl will be brought to bed."

"And...? What then?"

"She may find it difficult to walk after."

She smiles shyly. "Why?"

He raises a brow. "A girl knows why."

"When?"

"Not today."

"But..."

"Pleasure is not appropriate in the House of Black and White."

"But I've felt it here a hundred times. Probably thousands."

He's rather amused that they're discussing this so casually. "How so?"

"When you speak to me, or touch my arm. Anything, really. Even the time you pinned me down with your knee and I had to find a way to stand."

He enjoyed that, too. Far more than he should have.

"I know pleasure," she says. "I've learnt how to give it to myself, and if it's that good alone, I want to feel what it's like with you."

This is far too much to know, and yet he aches to know more. When has this happened? Does she make a sound? It is a physical act only, or...does she think of him?

"Lovely girl. It cannot happen here." She returns to her tapping and he indulges himself a touch, finding that the nape of her neck feels like a sun-warmed peach. "But there may be another way."

"Good. Say it."

"Bad actors often work alongside others and contracts sometimes come in threes or more. One day we'll leave here together and what follows will not be under this roof."

"But then you might say it distracts from our assigned service and refuse."

A girl reads thoughts too well, just as he likes touching her too well. Nose to hair, he breathes in with eyes closed and hears his own pulse, strong and slow.

"It's a human need," she insists, continuing her work as his hand travels over her back. "Like eating. Or shitting or sleeping."

"Morghulis, dohaeris..." A thumb presses into her shoulder. She's getting so strong. "There is no such phrase for fucking."

"Then let's make one."

"Wicked girl."

He snatches her by the waist and lifts her to perch upon the table that's never held a girl so alive.

He hasn't seen her in such pure light since they've stopped meeting in the south-facing room, and she's all that he remembers. Eyes like no other and skin like milk...although a violet island mars the pale curve of her neck.

"What's this?" He gently pulls her tunic aside to see where it pools into her shoulder, and she parts her legs so that he might examine it more closely.

"Your faceless friends have me more bruised than old fruit."

Ah, but she is so, so ripe, and before he can stop himself he's bending to taste the sweet salt of her skin. It grows to a soft kiss, and he drags a slow chain of them up her neck as her fingers weave into his hair. Her mouth is more than ready for him when he reaches it, and after all this waiting it feels almost as intimate as the closest thing they could do. She swallows a soft little sound and they both pull back, dazed.

"A girl must forgive a man's weakness."

"I won't. Because you shouldn't be sorry." Wiggling closer to the edge, she hooks a leg around him. "If I come to your bed, there's lots we can do besides what you won't let me have."

"We cannot."

She pouts for a moment, then instigates a loving little struggle; his hipbone brushes the sweetest hollow of her body and her eyes grow wild. He must refuse.

"We cannot. It's forbidden."

"What are the consequences, exactly?"

"Far worse than you think." He's only seen it once and will never forget it. "I'm sorry. A man cannot."

"But-"

"Dearest girl. Please."

Something in his eyes is firm enough to silence her, and he circles his arms around her and rests his chin on her shoulder. They are quiet for a very long time. "Is it enough to be loved?"

Her knees squeeze around him. "Suppose it will have to be."

"We must not act on it or speak of it. We must serve and wait."

"Until the day that we can."

"Just so."

She kisses him again and extricates herself, hops down off the table, and swallows it all down into darkness. She's certain this is a lesson to hide oneself, because her heart feels big enough to burst.

They somehow manage to finish the face together; on her way to deliver it to the Hall, she bumps into the bearded man. She's fought him twice, and believes that in the hierarchy of the House, his status may be higher than most.

He's dark and taller than Jaqen, but not nearly as nice to look at. He studies the new face, then he studies her. "The Many-Faced God frowns upon his closest servants stealing time that belongs to him," he warns. "You must be more careful."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, but he levels her with a glare implying she already knows.

He enters the room where Jaqen scrapes resin out of one of the bowls.

"Valar morghulis."

"Valar dohaeris."

"Odd, coming from you."

"A man does not understand."

"You steal from our God every day you're awake. Your time. Your attention."

"This is not so."

"It is, and yet you pretend otherwise."

It's common to not know who among their peers is lying. He wonders how much this one knows.

"It's the girl."

Of course it is. "And what of her?"

"You've grown far too close since her return. You've been heard talking in the baths."

So that's all. He almost laughs. "After all the things that have gone on in the baths and this is your complaint. Talking."

"It isn't the talking and you know that. This cannot be."

_And yet it is._

"You know what will happen if this continues."

He does.

"Finish her training so she can get on with her work and you can get on with yours."

He nods his understanding and pauses once he's alone, leaning against the table he last leaned against with a girl wrapped around him like a handfasting ribbon.

Those who disgrace the House or leave the Order are allowed to live, but only with a great swath of flesh scraped off their face so the masks will never stick again.

He recently meditated on this after a bitter cup of wormwood distillate, deducing that while the House itself is sacred, every death rendered unto to Him is flawless in its finality, so a good servant's occasional indulgence is irrelevant. Before the bizarre dreams swept him away, he came up with other theories, too.

A great war might render Him too busy to bother with trivial matters such as this.

Perhaps the punishment has been an artificial construct by some Faceless Men to keep the others obedient.

Perhaps he will grow used to loving without touching, or perhaps his lovely girl will not want it, or him, soon enough.

The last one made him frown then, just as it does now, and he returns to his work.

He caps the bottles, puts the blades away, and puts the bowls in water to soak. He licks a quick taste of honey off his finger, and before brushing the remaining dust out of the mortar, he tries to replicate the ringing sound a girl makes with the pestle.

He finds, after at least twenty tries, that he cannot.


	5. peony

Jaqen watches a girl's confidence grow quick as a southern vine from knowing she's loved.

She's likely held a desert having not been touched with any affection since she was small; he's lived his own desert in parallel for much longer, which may be why he's succumbed to this lush hell despite every intent not to. It's almost a relief that the bearded man senses something untoward brewing and piles him with extra work he dare not complain about, like melting down the old faces that are beyond repair.

 _Ghastly_.  It's one of the worst smells on earth.

He's also told to sweep out the rag room.

 _Endless_.  Valar dohaeris, but it's a task meant for someone many rungs lower.

He's careful to keep his face blank during the precious little time he's with her, or when hearing of her progress with others. In turn, she puts up a high white wall that implies he's not particularly important to her. The disinterest feels so genuine he almost believes it until they pass in the hall and she brushes his wrist with her fingertips. That night he can't sleep and works far beyond what the bearded man asks.

He often thinks of kissing her, and often wishes he hadn't.

 _Is it enough to be loved,_  he'd asked, but it isn't.

He finds that she agrees the night he opens his chamber door and finds industrious Lanna lounging in his bed by lantern-light. Her tunic's so loosely laced one of her breasts shows, and is as out of place as a pink peony floating in a quarry.

It's the most of her he's ever seen. "A girl is indecent," he says, though he hardly minds.

"She's been neglected as of late."

"For her own safety."

"Even so. She misses the scent of a man and there's lots of it where he sleeps."

Of course he must usher her out, but it's a rare treat to pause and look...her hair's released from Lanna's twin knots and finger-combed to soft waves, and there's a relaxed set to her pretty face. Arm moving at a languid pace, one knee cocked up...

_She's touching herself._

He doesn't dare step any closer. "Lovely girl. This is forbidden."

"Is it?" The hand rummaging beneath her skirt pauses and the colour in her cheeks implies she's been rather successful down there. "A girl does it all the time and nothing bad ever happens. Quite the opposite, in fact. A man can watch," she invites, voice lowering to the pitch of seduction. "Or help, if he likes."

"He cannot," he says, thought there is a note of weakness in his voice that they both hear. She taunts him with a raised brow and rises to stand before him, flushed and fresh.

"A girl will leave. But she's got something for you."

Two slick fingers are stuffed into his mouth, and it tastes so good it's like  _falling._  Falling backward into another place, another time, and he takes her wrist and sucks harder.

Her hand snaps back and folds behind her back with the other. "Since it can't happen here, I'm going outside," she says. "And you will follow."

She practically floats on the quiet walk out, rather proud of herself. Is it rarer to be a Faceless Man, or wield power over one? An interesting question to ponder while she waits.

The night is cool and clear outside the great black and white doors, with just enough crisp white half-moon to see by. She tries a little test while imagining his height beside her.  _Yes,_  it should work...she'll stand one step higher so their heights are closer, wrap her arms around those broad shoulders, hoist her leg up, and let him crush her up against the pillar behind. She imagines a sharp, sudden stab followed by luscious pain fading to pleasure and he'll pound a song out of her throat before falling into her himself, and then they'll be bound forever.

Except...he's taking too long.

Her pulse thrums so strong anyone else could hear it from the outside.

A short eternity passes while she waits, but at last the door creaks open and he's there, wearing common clothes for some reason. He does not look pleased.

"Wicked girl." There's no time for the pillar fantasy to come true as he walks down toward the water and she instinctively follows. He sinks to sit on the lowermost step, looks up to the moon for help, and sighs. "A man has said he will not disgrace the House and yet she persists. Why?"

She sits down primly on the step next to him. "We're not in the House."

She expects exasperation but he smiles a little. "A man has said a girl must learn to wait. She'll be most sorry if she doesn't."

"Why? Is it not as good as she's imagined?"

"No. It's better."

"Hmm." He wouldn't say such a thing if he had no interest in showing her, so she swings her weight over to straddle his lap. He doesn't fight it at all.

"A man's service is already in doubt," he warns, though surely she can tell he loves being this close. "If he gives what you ask, he'll have to treat you as little more than invisible to hide what he feels."

Those lovely wounded eyes. "That's no different from now."

"There's a reason why. If a Faceless Man offends, they'll scrape him raw from here," he touches the lower corner of her nose and draws it up to her ear. "To here, and it will be the only face he has. The only offering he will ever make to the Many-Faced God after that is himself."

"Seems like a waste of His time to care about such things. And you're probably too valuable to cut." She runs the tip of her nose along his cheekbone while he snakes a hand up her bare leg. "Far too pretty, too."

His hand stops on her thigh. "Pretty?"

"You pretend not to know." She closes his face in her hands and kisses him lightly. "You could have any face and yet this is the one you wear."

A kiss far bigger than the last opens up between them and his fingers find wet velvet so warm he could weep. It's the sweetest pain to want again...to lean toward being someone, and she adjusts to his touch with a soft sigh.

"I didn't come here to sweep floors," she whispers. "And I don't love you to not have you. Give me a taste, just this once. I'll settle down, I swear it."

It's his turn to cock an eyebrow. "A man doubts that very much."

"Please. I can hardly sleep at night."

He knows he shouldn't.

He shouldn't, but this girl knows how to bite back pain and suffer.

If he gives her what she wants, it could be a lesson in denying her desires and shedding her true self.

And a selfish indulgence for him.

"Just this once," he repeats, and eases her off his lap to stand.

He takes her hand and walks her to the inn where he brought her out of the rain - she's giddy enough to scream but hopes to get through this without looking ridiculous. The innkeeper doesn't recognize either of them but Arya is quite certain he knows what's going on.

They're put in a different room from before but it's simple and similar. This time she can see by the soft lantern-light and Jaqen sits on the bed's edge and invites to stand before him.

It's awkward, not knowing what to do, but he deftly unlaces her clothes and kisses all bare skin left behind. Breasts, ribs, hipbones...she's ashamed at first to be so exposed but every touch reminds that he loves it, loves her. He sheds his clothes next and she's afraid to look; his body's usually well-hidden and she learns he's finely muscled and overall bigger than she thought; one glimpse of his cock and she's frightened to think what's to come but he folds her into his arms for sweet, slow kisses while she gets used to him, leaking against her belly and shivering when she grows brave enough to grasp him. It's like no other skin she's ever touched, like hard silk in her hand, and when she's no longer afraid she whispers that she's ready.

On his back, he guides her to climb up and take him in. "Slowly," he murmurs, watching closely as she holds her breath and looks worried, but little by little, she sinks to surround him. For all the messing about she's done down there, there's still a pinch of pain that takes a moment to disappear, but it opens up into a whole new feeling that's much...wider, and quite different from what she knows.

"My lovely girl."

It's a triumph to be on top of him like this, slowly rocking against him as he pushes up inside her; she can tell that he's moved by it, too, even though this can't possibly be new for him. "You've probably done this with hundreds of girls."

"No," he says, and is slapped hard on the cheek.

"A lie."

He pouts sweetly. "Not hundreds," he says, and she feels a subtle twinge on the inside when she slaps him again for fun. "And what of a girl? How many for her?"

None, of course. "About twelve."

"She lies." A sharp crack lands on her arse so hard his hand stings and he pulls her down, covering her with soft kisses and apologies.

"Forgive. It was meant to amuse."

"It did. Shh, it did, it sounded worse than it was." She braces herself with hands on his chest and continues the slow, deep grind. "You're the only one," she confesses, though he already knows. "Just you."

He rears up to kiss her, though the movement between them never stops and the feeling she knows starts to collect down there, just like every time she's touched herself and imagined his face, his scent, his cock filling her up like this. His strong hands hold her on both sides, fingertips in the flesh of her thighs and he watches intently to make sure he's pleasing her. When her breathing changes, he pulls her hips down against him and fucks her harder while he fights to keep her moving and keep her in place at the same time.

He's forgotten that he was once good at this. To think there are men who have this every day...a soft bed and a pretty highborn girl who's already well on her way to fucking like a king's favourite courtesan. Her back arches and she cries out, pleasure ripping through her and and he thinks of the rag room to distract himself, lest he follow her too soon.

Her voice ebbs, her body slows, and she transforms from a courtesan goddess back into herself. "Stop, stop, stop. It's too much. Oh!" Her leg swings over and she crashes to the bed beside him, flushed and smiling. "I can't take it. It tickles."

"Men get that, too."

"Really? Hmm."

"Sweet girl." He tips her chin forward for a gentle kiss on the mouth, and when her legs stop trembling, he arranges her onto her back; she catches another glimpse of him and can't believe  _that_   was just inside her. Soon it's in her again along with his weight pressing down on her and everything feels stretched even wider than before. She gives him a playful slap to see if it'll jump again - it does, and he bears down so hard she squeals. She loves it and digs in her heels, her nails...even this feels different from before, which was so different from alone. And they've only just begun.

He kisses and bites where he can reach while buried in her; she loves the feeling of being pinned underneath him and wonders what it will feel like when he finishes. He's brushing against her little bump again and she swallows, hoping to catch another wave. Tipping her hips a certain way intensifies her pleasure, and she feels the heat of being swept up with him.

"Oh, Gods..."

He slows a bit, trying to judge what he's doing that she likes so much. This way, that way, there. Right there. "Is that what a girl likes?"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

He teases her for a moment...cock, kisses, everything more shallow than she wants. "And what else does she like?"

"I love your voice."

"Do you?"

She nods beneath him. "I think of it. When I'm alone."

How interesting. "And what does it say?"

"You waking me up. Asking who I am."

Odd. But he does it for her anyway, sinking down to his elbows and laying back into her, deep and hard. "Who are you," he growls.

It taps something wild within her, and the answer comes with no thought. "I'm yours."

"Who are you?"

"Yours." He's squeezing the breath out of her; the pace quickens and she holds on tight. "Only yours." Her bud's crushed over and over in the most delicious friction, and another free-fall comes moments before his; on the tail-end of her own breathless peak he groans, slamming into her and spilling more into what's already hot and soaked. When it's over, she collects him in her arms and brings him to rest on her breast.

"Beloved girl."

An adjustment necessitates separating, which is a shame. Her cunt feels cold without him, but the contentment between them is warmth enough as she strokes his hair and listens to his breathing settle. To think that this is what she's missed and almost didn't care about if not for him. And it was every bit what she'd hoped for.

"Open up your legs," Jaqen says suddenly. He sits up and sorts through his shed clothes and comes up with a little vial that he uncaps and tips onto his middle finger. She does as he asks and winces as he shoves it up inside her; it's somehow more startling than the other piece of him most recently up there, and pushes around till he bumps against something firm that hurts, a little. It warms, then he takes his hand away and wipes it on the bedding.

"So there are no children."

"Oh," she swallows. "Thank you."

"Tip your hips up." He sits with his back to her so she can prop her legs up against him.

"How long do I have to stay this way?"

"Three days."

She kicks him gently.

"Not long."

She smiles and tangles her toes in his hair. "You knew we would do this."

"I hoped not, but yes," he says. "And now that we have, a man might not be so kind as either of us would like. No one cannot have favourites. No one cannot visit another's bed, or speak of love in secret. There are enough suspicions already."

"I'll wait," she says firmly, though he senses her pain has already begun.

He brings her legs back down and bends to bring her clothes up off the floor. It will be easier if he dons another face and it fills every corner of him as he pulls from a man not like him at all. "We will not speak of this and your visits will cease. Tomorrow you will resume with the Waif."

"No! Please! No, I don't care about her. You," she begs. "Please be you."

He removes the other face and sighs. "We mustn't go back together. A girl will return first and act as if nothing is different. It's not likely she'll see anyone, but if asked, she was bothered by the nightshade tar they're cooking downstairs and she left the House for air."

She gets out of bed, feels shaky on her feet and steps into Lanna's full skirt. "And what about you?"

He's exhausted. All the extra work and now this...this bed cradles him like a mother and he will indulge himself another few hours. "I'll wait and follow."

Fastening her clothes is the heaviest, worst chore of her life. "You were right," she says ruefully. "I should've been patient because now I want this all the time."

He nods sadly. "One day we might have that freedom. But not today."

"I'll wait," she says, and leans back into bed for one last kiss. After that, she's unable to look at him at all and quietly leaves without looking back.

On her return to the House she notices shooting pain in the long cords on the inside of her thighs and it feels like she's raw and dripping down there, even though she wiped off and shouldn't be. It's worth it, and she believes she walks a little taller now. Finally, she's crossed over, and now that it's done she doesn't expect to want it with anyone else.

Back at the House, the tall black door creaks opens for her on its own. She's too slow to see who is responsible, because certainly someone - no one - is, but she sees only darkness.

It's unnerving that one of them knew she was out.

Could that also mean it's known that  _he's_  out, and why?

She lights a lantern and stays composed all the way to her room. If they wanted to confront her, they would. No one here has ever hesitated to exploit her weaknesses or beat her down. Not even Jaqen, sometimes.

Although...it's likely no one cares about her at all. She's not proven to be particularly valuable.

_But he is._

They wouldn't possibly cut him.

_Would they?_

She tries not to think of it...if there's any danger at all, Jaqen will know what to do. He could tell the lie about nightshade tar as easily as murder whoever's asking.

Opening the door to her dank little room is the worst disappointment after where she'd just been. Resting her back against the closed door, she surveys the cold stone and wonders if he's still folded in the warmth and softness of their bed at the inn. Sharp, selfish tears spring to her eyes. He may have been right.

_A girl must learn to wait. She'll be most sorry if she doesn't._

Just as she's about to plummet into self-pity, a tall presence creeps up on the other side of the door...and a metallic click shifts the lock pin into the bolt.

The blood flows out of her face as she wilts to the floor, hand to her mouth.

_They know._


End file.
